


they call me cheap champagne

by anicula



Series: res gestae [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, body guard au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anicula/pseuds/anicula
Summary: In which Yuri exacts the kind of justice he believes in and Otabek is only minorly inconvenienced by the failings of the human body.





	they call me cheap champagne

**Author's Note:**

> un-orphaned work.

The metal is cold and heavy in his hands. It clinks sharply against his rings and nearly gives him away. But the man continues on, pausing only for half a beat to look around before rounding a corner of the alleyway. Yuri follows. 

His shoes are a slick black, something Yuri might’ve liked if he saw them in a window display. As is, they’re nothing more to him than a guiding light for where the man is going, the shine of them so bright the moon reflects off effortlessly. They take a winding path around the city, through several alleys and taking numerous stops at dingy pubs. Yuri matches the man step for step, patient, muscles tight. Waiting through the man’s initial paranoia, through his drunkenness, and finally - finally he walks up the back fire escape of a brick townhouse and Yuri is done waiting. 

Yuri kicks off his own boots before ascending and the sting of the cold metal against his sock covered soles threaten to wreck his frame with shivers, so he takes in a breath and lets the cold bleed through him. It centers him and makes him still, cold but steady in every way that he needed to be. He hides himself at the crevice between wall and window where he can see the shadow of the man placing down his arms and taking his shoes off. But he’s drunk, so drunk that he bothers with little else before dropping back down onto the bed with the relaxed confidence of a man having done a solid day’s work. 

It’s when his eyes are on the verge of closing forever that Yuri chooses to slip through the window. To take a stand at the foot of his bed. To see this pig of a man that brought his so low. He shouldn’t have, not by the look of him. His belly was protruding from beer and his slacks were dirt cheap polyester. The holster he used was badly patched up with tape. Still, he was lucky when it counted. Yuri lifted his gun up and clicked the safety off. The man wasn’t going to be lucky again. Not now, not ever. 

Two to the heart. One to the head. Nary a protest to any of them.

 Yuri catches the sight of a family photo on his way out and there’s a sudden fierce want that strikes through him. A swift, hard wish that his family would feel the pain he felt. The all encroaching fear that’s been sitting on his heart like a paperweight since Otabek had been pushed through the emergency room doors. He has to stop himself from breaking the picture frame. He’d been careful to leave no trace of himself so far, even tying his hair up and slipping a beanie on top, and risking jail to take out his anger now would be - 

Yuri turned around without a second look, practicing the restraint that Otabek always accused him of not having, and walked down the fire escape. 

 

 

 

It strikes him as he’s waiting for the nurses to clear Otabek for visitors. The nausea and shakes. It never happens during the kill, he attributes it to his grandfather taking him out far too young, but like clockwork, he gets them after. The urge to vomit and curl into a tight ball is only ever so slightly surpassed by his urge to be presentable in public. 

Otabek’s sitting upright and looking drowsy when Yuri makes his way into the room. But his eyes remain keen and they catch on the restless twitching of Yuri’s fingers as soon as Yuri’s close enough.

“Yura?” Otabek reaches for Yuri’s hand when Yuri sits down on the bed. It’s not done without a wince and Yuri instinctively stretches his hand out to push Otabek back against the pillows. It only serves to make it easier for Otabek to pull him closer and inspect Yuri’s trembling hand. “What’s this?”

“My hand,” Yuri says, pointedly ignoring Otabek’s probing look. He tugs it out of Otabek’s grasp before tucking the sheets back around Otabek and lying down next to him, the urge to curl up too hard to resist now that it was just them in the sterile white nothingness. 

Otabek rests his free hand on Yuri’s head and strokes the tangled strands, bringing up the ends to his face in a facsimile of a kiss. “Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid.”

“You didn’t do anything stupid,” Yuri replies with his eyes closed. He feels the aggravated sigh before he hears it. 

“Did you at least follow protocol?” 

Protocol being telling his grandfather first and bringing a contingent of men with him. Men who would only hinder his movements and stop him from actually accomplishing anything besides walking at the steady pace of a pensioner. 

“Does it matter?” Yuri shifts closer to the opened palm lying near his cheek, a silent request that Otabek grants despite his displeasure. 

“I just want you to be safe Yura.” Otabek brushes the hair off of Yuri’s forehead. “No man is worth risking your life for.” 

Yuri stares at the sheets covering Otabek’s lap. He’s heard too many iterations of this to know that any protest now will lead to silence, or worst, Otabek’s resignation. The last time they went over this, it hadn’t been pretty. Nikolai had threatened to keep Yuri locked up in a tower and blacklist Otabek, and Otabek in turn, the awful traitor that he was, had wholeheartedly agreed. 

They lapse into silence anyway. Yuri’s still too nauseous to put up a fight and Otabek’s barely staying awake, his fingers slower and slower with every stroke. 

 

 

 

Yuri wakes to the fussing of nurses around them. They’re efficient and fast - curtains opened, food placed on the table, clipboards checked, but they manage to wake the both of them nevertheless. 

Otabek in the morning light is a glorious mess of dark hair and sleep creases on his forehead. The sight makes Yuri warm all over and he regrets nothing of the night before. The cold and subsequent queasiness had nothing on the sight of Otabek, whole and hale, the colour back in his cheeks. 

He waits until the nurses are all gone before leaning over to take a tray and place it down on the bed. 

“Don’t you want some?” Otabek looks at the singular tray. A bland bowl of porridge sits next to a piece of toast and an even blander looking cup of jello. 

Yuri wrinkles his nose delicately. “No.” 

Otabek’s laugh is cut short by the shrill ring of Yuri’s phone. He tilts his head to search for the phone on the bedside table but Yuri can already see the name flashing all too clearly across the screen. 

_dedushka_

“Hello?” He’s not sullen, trying his best not to be in the face of the disappointment that he knows will be glaring at him from the other side of the call. 

A long sigh comes through the speakers first. And then a, “Yurochka.”

Yuri bites his lip to stem the flow of excuses waiting to burst out like he’s fifteen again and sneaking home from a night out. What escapes is a quick, rushed, “I was careful.”

“I know.” The gravel in his grandfather’s tired voice makes guilt spring up and spill across his tongue like acid.

“Are you checking up on me now?” Yuri can’t – doesn’t want to – keep the petulance from his voice.

“I do when you take a gun from the vault.” There’s a heavy silence that lingers, punctuated by another long suffering sigh. “Yurochka, do you remember when you first learned to shoot?”

“Yes.” How could he not? He was all of ten, holding a gun he could barely lift up and even then, only just through gritted teeth and spite but grandfather had insisted like he never had before.

“And do you remember what I told you then?”

“Yes.” Granted this one was harder to forget when Nikolai took every opportunity to remind Yuri, the dictions so rote that Yuri could repeat them verbatim half asleep.

“Good.” There was no room for argument there. It was a raspy kind of full stop that told Yuri his grandfather was still smoking too much for his age. The next words that follow are a little slower, their cadence lower, “I love you Yurochka.”

“I love you too,” Yuri murmurs, picking at the frayed ends of his jeans. Otabek had shifted back on the bed to give him some illusion of privacy.

“Tell that to your Kazakh boy.” His grandfather’s voice is gruff this time, taking on the apathetic tone it always got when they came around to discussing Otabek. 

Yuri looks to see Otabek staring with fierce concentration at the one fat squirrel sitting on the tree outside the window. “He knows that I love you very much dedushka.” 

His grandfather harrumphs at that and lets Yuri go after a few more reminders to not be imprudent and to be on time for their friday night dinner. 

Otabek is quietly studying his face when Yuri looks his way. 

“What?” Yuri instinctively wipes at his face with the back of his hand. 

Otabek gives him a small smile and takes Yuri’s offending hand between his own. “How is your grandfather doing?”

“Smoking,” Yuri says with a shrug. “Loves me.” He laces their fingers together. “Thinks I need to be more vigilant.”

“Sounds like a wise man.” Otabek nudges Yuri closer with his knee and Yuri goes easily, folding himself close to Otabek again, the food tray left to the side. 

Yuri lets out a hum of agreement, settled and warm from the heat of Otabek’s arm draped around him. He pauses his tracing of the bandages wrapped around Otabek’s torso to look up at Otabek. “Do you think you’ll be ready to be discharged today?”

Otabek lifts his good shoulder. “The doctor cleared me for leaving yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Yuri jerks upright. “And you didn’t think to say this last night?”

“Yura.” Otabek lays a hand on where Yuri’s fisted the sheets. “You looked tired last night.” He looks meaningfully at the discarded holster next to Yuri’s jacket. 

“I don’t need babying,” Yuri says, though he doesn’t move his hand out of Otabek’s grasp. 

Otabek’s only answer is to slide his hand up till he cups Yuri’s cheek and he presses a chaste kiss at the corner of Yuri’s mouth. Yuri shifts and presses into it until Otabek has no choice but to open his mouth and then, it’s a hot glide, a push and pull that urges Yuri to crawl across Otabek’s lap and make a spectacle of himself in the hospital room.

“Yura.” Otabek’s voice has taken on a deep, throaty quality that makes Yuri squirm and he rolls his hips against Otabek’s in retaliation.

“What?” he mutters against the meat of Otabek’s shoulder. He digs his nails in when Otabek only exhales and leans back against the headboard.

“We’re in a hospital.” Otabek’s hand slide under his shirt, warm compared to the silk of Yuri’s top with his calluses catching on the soft material and stretching it tight. He makes no other move to resume their previous activities though, content to sit there and pull Yuri’s clothes this way and that.

“And?” Yuri replies flatly, unimpressed with Otabek’s control.

“And there are cameras Yura.” At this Otabek brings Yuri closer by the small of his back and delivers the next words with his lips pressed against the curve of Yuri’s ear. “And I don’t want to share you with anyone.” He has Yuri’s shirt pulled so tight it’s on the verge of tearing. “Not with the camera.” A soft kiss pressed against Yuri’s temple. “And most definitely not with the fucking fifteen year old on the other side of that lens.” He says the last words with a growl and it only serves to make Yuri that much harder and ready to smash the stupid surveillance just to get Otabek in him right then and there.

But Otabek pushes him towards his things on the chair with a firm grip like he can see what’s going through Yuri’s mind. “Home, Yura.”

Yuri sends back a baleful glare.

The stare he gets back is impassive.

He pulls on his jacket grudgingly, and helps Otabek out of bed.

 

 

 

Viktor and Yuuri are waiting for them the minute they step out of the car. Both sitting so casually in the garden they had to be up to something. Makkachin lies at their feet, sunning herself with the occasional flick of her tail.

“Good morning!”

And Yuri already wants to crawl back into the car.

“Morning.” Otabek is more polite. Foreign enough that he treads lightly even around the closest of their group.

“What do you want?” Yuri has no such compunctions.

“We just wanted to see how Otabek was doing,” Yuuri says genially. “We were worried when we heard he was shot.”

“He’s fine,” Yuri replies with a wave of his hand in Otabek’s general direction. “Anything else?”

“Please Yurio, in the house first.” Yuuri ushers them all in the direction of the entrance.

Yuri assents with a grunt and holds out a hand to help Otabek when he visible winces, trying to juggle the load of their bags and the stairs.

Yuuri and Viktor keep up a stream of incessant chatter about the weather and the changing season and  _oh Yurio you need to visit our new cottage, it’s so nice, you’ll love it!_

Their paranoia stays until all the doors are locked and windows checked.

Yuri drapes himself across the daybed, scooping up Gata and checking her collar for bugs before burying his face in her soft fur. Otabek takes his customary seat by the door and the other two intertwine themselves on the couch.

Yuuri starts with a soft, “So your grandfather called us last night.”

Yuri looks at him, eyebrow raised. “Why?”

 “Don’t be obtuse Yurio,” Viktor reprimands. “You know why.” He does his best impression of a displeased parent, which, considering he has neither inclination nor an actual child, is piss poor.

“He sent you guys to clean up after me?” Yuri sits up, incredulous. “What – is Georgi ill? Why did you guys have to sweep the place?”

“He was worried,” Yuuri says as he leans forward a little. “And he wanted to be sure that it was all clean.”

“And it was!” Viktor only quells a little at the look Yuuri shoots him, his proud beam fading into a stock smile.

“But risky,” Yuuri continues, “you could’ve been hurt Yurio. He wasn’t a small man.”

“He was drunk,” Yuri grumbles. “And I took all the precautions.”

“All the precautions?” Yuuri questions, smile so bland Yuri wanted to smack him with a pillow.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “All the ones I needed. Are you guys here for something besides bitching because I already got that from grandpa,” Yuri says, holding Gata up in the air and making faces at her.

“Well.” Yuuri clears his throat. He turns to Viktor.

Viktor lets out a put upon sigh. “We didn’t just sweep the place – your grandfather also had us check into his background.”

“And?” Yuri glances at Otabek out of the corner of his eye, but it’s hard to read the other man when he’s sitting so far away and Otabek has no tells to start with.

“He’s a retired fed.”

The silence that follows is only mildly accusatory.

“Is there something you’d like to tell us Yurio?” Yuuri probes in that distressingly genial manner of his.

“Anyone you fucked over recently that we need to take care of?” Viktor is less genial, with more teeth in his smile than a toothpaste commercial and just as artificial.

Yuri shakes his head. He hasn’t but – he doesn’t know if Otabek hasn’t. “I don’t think so – ”

Viktor catches his eye as he’s looking away from Otabek. “No one at all?” Viktor shifts his stare to Otabek. His pleasant smile is devoid of all emotion. “Because it’s important that we know if anything is wrong Yurio. You might be in danger.” His tone turns a fraction more glacial. “And we always protect our own.”

Otabek meets Viktor’s gaze head on, not saying anything. Yuri, on the other hand, is rearing to tear Viktor a new one.

“What – you don’t trust grandpa’s judgment now?” he says with an eye roll. “Otabek was cleared, same as everyone else-”

“By Georgi,” Viktor interrupts. He narrows his eyes at Otabek. “And awfully fast, might I add.”

“You’re just upset grandpa didn’t let you see his file,” Yuri shoots back. Gata squirms out of his tight gripe with an irritated meow.

Viktor has his mouth opened for more when Yuuri lays a hand on his arm.

“Viktor, we’re not here to argue the logistics of Otabek’s employment.” He smiles apologetically at Otabek. “Of course we think he’s doing a great job – we can see how dedicated he is.”

Viktor’s mutter of  _a little too dedicated_  is barely audible under the force of Yuuri’s tight smile.

“But it would be very useful if either of you could think of possible people that might be implicated,” Yuuri says. “We’ve never had a problem with the feds and we don’t see why we might now.”

 

 

 

The doors close with a heavy boom.

Yuri stretches his arms out and cracks his neck as he heads for the divan.

“Tired already Yura?” Otabek’s voice is fond, even after a completely unnecessarily long inquisition.

Yuri sends him a stink eye. “You’re not?”

Otabek shrugs. “They were only doing what they thought was best for you.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “I don’t need them to do what they think is best for me –  _because get this_  – I’m not a fucking child,” Yuri bristles, knowing well enough that his frustration was completely misplaced but unwilling to bend.

Otabek walks over with their drinks and kisses Yuri’s forehead before curling around him. “No you are not,” he agrees.

Yuri sighs, deflating a little in face of Otabek’s complacent manner.

“I just wish we could’ve told them,” he says softly. He brings his hand up to Otabek’s face, brushing his unruly fringe back and tucking it behind Otabek’s ear.

“Just a while more,” Otabek says. He twists their free hands together.

“That’s stupid.” Yuri lets himself be pulled into Otabek’s embrace.

“You calling your grandfather’s plan stupid?” The raised eyebrow is all too clear in Otabek’s tone.

“I’m calling the need to baby Viktor like he’s child stupid,” Yuri huffs in response.

Otabek stays silent at that, tracing small patterns across the top of Yuri’s cheekbones before he sinks his hands into Yuri’s hair and rubs soothing circles there. He’s almost boneless when Otabek speaks.

“Perhaps we ought to speak to your grandfather about it,” he suggests, “It’s hard to imagine they won’t figure it out soon the way they’re looking.”

Yuri stretches in his arms, cracking his back. “Maybe.” He looks at Otabek. “Maybe not.” He pulls a face. It’s not hard to imagine Otabek’s scenario, it’s even easier to imagine the way trigger happy Viktor might react to the news, if left to his own devices.

Yuri reaches for the fruit bowl Otabek had placed on the floor and picks up a pear. It crunches satisfyingly even as it leaves a small trail of sticky sweet down his arm, stopping just shy of his pushed up sleeves.

Otabek’s sigh is nothing like Nikolai’s or Viktor’s or even, on the occasion, Yuuri’s. There’s no disappointment, or unnecessary dramatics, just a small huff of breath out that tells Yuri that all his whims are going to be catered in short order.

And he’s right.

Otabek wipes off the pear juice with his thumb and sucks it into his own mouth with a soft tut. “Messy boy.”

Yuri stretches his arm out for more. “Not if you do your job right.”

Otabek shoots him a half-formed smile before bending down to do Yuri’s bidding, placing open mouthed kisses that pinch and pull at Yuri’s skin as much as they rid it of the sticky juice trail.

The last kiss is soft and lingering, chaste if Yuri was pressed for a word.

“Happy your highness?”

Otabek leans up to take a bite from the pear still dangling in Yuri’s limp hand. Yuri drops it back into the bowl with a mock irritated turn of the mouth.

“No,” he says primly.

“No?” Otabek replies, still amused, but not laughing, because he  _would never_.

Yuri shakes his head. “Not at all.”

He stretches his arms backwards, cards his fingers through Otabek’s hair and yanks like the asshole he is, doesn’t stop until Otabek’s a breath away from him, so close he can only focus on the dark flecks of amber in Otabek’s eyes.

“Can I help you?” Otabek is infuriatingly amused.

Yuri rolls his eyes and goes for a kiss, awkward in their position but satisfying when Otabek’s moving forward and caging Yuri in between his arms and the soft leather of the divan. Yuri smoothes his hands over the front of the stretched white shirt, careful to avoid the bandages, and bends down to press a soft kiss on top of them when Otabek pulls away.

Otabek’s studying him with dark liquid eyes when he looks up from kissing his dressed wounds.

“They don’t hurt at all you know, you don’t have to be gentle,” Otabek says, his hands supporting the bend of Yuri’s waist.

“Not testing that.”

Yuri pushes Otabek back down on the divan, unbuttoning his shirt and spreading him out, half purposeful, half fussing over his wrapped up torso.

“You’re cute when you worry,” Otabek says, at ease in his new position. His arms are not quite slack, but soft, not demanding where his hands rest on Yuri’s thighs, thumb moving over the sensitive skin in slow circles.

“Are you implying I’m not always cute?” Yuri shoots back with a haughty lift of his chin.

Otabek’s answering smirk shouldn’t make his spine curve forward the way it does, till his shoulders are relaxed and his chin is low enough to catalogue all of Otabek’s minute expressions.

“That’s not completely correct,” he says, low, into the small space between them.

Yuri sinks his hands into the longer strands of Otabek’s hair, making the distance even narrower. “No?”

“No,” is the affirmation that accompanies a soft kiss to the corner of Yuri’s mouth.

Yuri turns so it becomes a real kiss, soft at first, then harder, more teeth and tongue, a small nip on Otabek’s bottom lip before he pulls back. His breathing is coming faster and so Otabek’s but –

“You should rest.”

Otabek shoots him an unimpressed look.

“No.”


End file.
